


Marvelous Marco

by NovelistAngel23



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Captivity, Circus, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Magician Jean, Mermaids, Modern Fantasy, Road Trips, mermaid marco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 01:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4416482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovelistAngel23/pseuds/NovelistAngel23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come on,” he insisted, eyes sparkling with desperation and excitement and the kind of surety that came with knowing he was doing what was right.</p>
<p>Marco questioned him with silent eyes, staring at the truck and the blanket covered tank as Jean regaled him with tales of the open road—of the ocean waiting at the end of it. “I’ll take you home. The Gulf of Mexico—it’ll be sunny when we get there, and I’ll set you free. You’ll never have to perform again. I’ll take good care of you.”</p>
<p>Marco popped his head out of the water.</p>
<p>“Come on, Marco. Let’s run away.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marvelous Marco

“Hoist her up!” someone ordered, an echo of thunder rolling behind his words. The sky cracked with lightning, the small fishing boat rocking in the unruly waves of a stormy sea.

Marco didn’t know what to do, tangled in a net and struggling. Water that was usually clear now flurried around him as he wriggled against his restraints. Rope dug into his skin and chafed it, scraped at his scales, and the sting of them ripping off made him cry out into the water.

But the net was rising, out of the water and into the cold night air, and he struggled harder, writhing in desperation, unable to voice his fear.

Someone shouted in surprise—maybe fear—when the net was hoisted completely out of the water. Marco hit the wooden boards of the boat, still screaming, still struggling, his tail flopping uselessly against the floor.

“What is it!” someone yelled.

“It’s still alive!”

“Throw it back!”

“Mermaid!”

“It’s a mermaid!”

“A mermaid!”

Marco clawed at the deck, but the net restrained him, making it hard to move, and his strength was quickly fading the longer he was out of the water. He could breathe, but this way was strange to him—his gills pulsed needlessly as he gasped for air. He couldn’t care less what the people—the _humans_ around him screamed about, but when their voices fell silent around him, he dared to look up through the openings in the net towards a tall, intimidating human man, staring down at him with a lecherous grin.

“And here I thought they were all rumors,” he laughed, voice disbelieving. He turned to his crew, and Marco felt his own breathing quicken as fear rose through him. “Find the ice cooler, fill it up with some of that ocean water. We’re going to make a lot of money tomorrow.”

Marco’s struggling died down as he watched the men scramble to follow orders, fatigue finally catching up to him. By the time he was pulled out of the net, he’d already passed out from exhaustion.

 

The tank was big—well, big enough—but it was empty and clear, nothing in it save for him. Most nights, they covered the top of it with something heavy so that Marco couldn’t throw himself out of the top. Supposedly, they feared he would commit suicide, which he thought was proof enough that they knew he was unhappy. (Some part of him scoffed at the possibility that they thought he would grow legs as soon as he was out of the water and walk away. If only that were true.)

Some nights, they would forget to put the cover on, mostly on nights when it was cold, because they knew he hated cold air anyway. It was different from cold water; it was dry and aching, a trigger for the memory of that night so long ago now, trapped in a net and calling for help.

But Marco didn’t care about that anymore. He’d long since gotten over his fear of the cold air, and every night that the cover was gone, he floated. Just floated, his tail immobile, his body light. It was peaceful, no threat of being poked or prodded into doing silly tricks that _made the_ _crowds go wild_.

“You should feel blessed, Marco, you’re a star, and not some science experiment.”

He’d heard that enough times for it to make him sick to his stomach just thinking about it.

So he treasured those peaceful, cold nights, studying the stars far away and wishing he could turn into bubbles or sea foam and float up into the sky to join them.

 

His name was Jean, and he was a magician that performed before Marco was brought on stage. He fed Marco once a week—his day was Thursday.

On Mondays it was the clowns’ job, messy and loud and cruel. When they fed him, Marco curled in the center of his tank, where he wouldn’t hear their tapping on the glass, taunting smirks and laughter.

Tuesdays it was the ringmaster’s job, and Marco waited patiently for him to leave—he always called Marco by his stage name, Marvelous Marco the Mermaid, and Marco refused to respond to it.

Wednesdays it was the trapeze artists’ job, with clumsy hands and slippery feet. Once, one of them fell in. They reacted as if Marco were a wild animal, screaming and splashing in the water, forgetting how to swim in their panic. If anything, it was another testament to how badly they knew they treated Marco, that they feared he would take any chance he could to attack them. He considered it, briefly, attacking them, dragging them down into the depths and holding them under until they drowned, but he shook the thought soon enough and hid in the center again, ignoring the ruckus above him.

Jean the magician was a relief every Thursday. Not long after Marco was captured, he’d decided that humans were never to be trusted. They were cruel and vapid and selfish and greedy, only interested in using Marco for money and fame. Jean made him question that notion.

He had a sharp face and thin eyes, and Marco sometimes wondered if he had shark teeth embedded in his set jaw. He never fed him the chum usually provided him, always paying out of his own pocket for fresher fish and occasionally clams or oysters. When he came to feed him, Marco floated at the top of the water and watched him work with his cards, deftly moving them from hand to hand, flipping them between his fingers and flashing the faces at Marco with a crooked smile.

Sometimes he played tricks for Marco, who remained silent at each one. Humans were untrustworthy, silly creatures, he reminded himself each time he had the urge to smile.

Jean produced flowers out of thin air for him one night before he left, luscious red ones with nicks in them where thorns were cut off. He left them on the little platform that led into Marco’s tank and said nothing the next day when red petals were scattered across the surface of the water.

One night, cold and tired, Jean dipped his feet in the water, and Marco noticed dark smudges like bruises beneath his eyes. He held a brown bottle and took swigs from it as he spoke into the air, spilling secrets as if Marco were an old friend. “I hate the way they treat you,” he whispered, and Marco was coaxed above the surface, staring at Jean with dark, curious eyes. “Like you’re a commodity and not a living being.”

Marco didn’t know how to respond so he ducked under again, swimming circles beneath Jean, marveling at the curl of his long toes in the water. “How long do mermaids live, Marco?” he asked quietly and waited for an answer as he drank long and hard from his bottle.

It took Marco a moment to decide if he would reply before he popped up over the surface again and whispered, “Very long,” in response.

Jean had the decency to look unsurprised that Marco could speak at all, although he did raise his eyebrows. He’d expected something deeper and rougher, not so sweet and gentle. He set his bottle down beside him, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, unafraid of Marco pulling him in. “Longer than a human?”

In response, Marco darted forward and stole his bottle, holding it above the water so he could toss it over the edge of the tank, to smash on the cement far below. Jean spluttered in surprise at him, and Marco only shrugged. “Perhaps you’d live longer if you didn’t drink yourself into an early grave.”

Jean had no ready argument.

Marco continued to float freely whenever Jean fed him, never worried about being reprimanded or covered. They spoke little to each other—although Jean told Marco things. Dreams about the future, becoming a traveling magician, showing the world his tricks, giving flowers to people who needed them. Marco just nodded in response to his words and watched the stars shift above them.

When Jean asked him questions, he answered, although quietly and softly and vaguely. “What’s the tail like?”

“Legs.”

“Do they turn into legs?”

“No.”

“Can I touch it?”

And Marco dove beneath the water again.

“Do you hate people?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Even me?”

Back underwater.

“Do you miss it? The ocean?”

Marco felt that question didn’t warrant an answer, but as Jean left that night, he found himself singing for the first time in a long time, longingly.

Marco didn’t know how long the circus had kept him—he’d been there before Jean joined, had been there for many cities and crowds. Days bled into months into years, and Marco had lost his voice over time. When he sang again, it hurt his throat, ached in his stomach, yet he sang with everything he had. When Jean was there to listen, somehow he felt less lonely.

 

It was late when Jean visited him last. Marco awoke to the sound of an old truck, hiccupping and popping with strain, and he pressed himself to the side of the tank in curiosity. Jean was all grins as he dashed out of the car and up the steps to the top of Marco’s tank. “Come on,” he insisted, eyes sparkling with desperation and excitement and the kind of surety that came with knowing he was doing what was right.

Marco questioned him with silent eyes, staring at the truck and the blanket covered tank as Jean regaled him with tales of the open road—of the ocean waiting at the end of it. “I’ll take you home. The Gulf of Mexico—it’ll be sunny when we get there, and I’ll set you free. You’ll never have to perform again. I’ll take good care of you.”

Marco popped his head out of the water.

“Come on, Marco. Let’s run away.”

Humans were untrustworthy, selfish, greedy creatures. They were clumsy and cruel. And yet Jean’s hands were sure, reverent, careful when he lifted Marco out of the water. He apologized when his knuckles grazed the scars of Marco’s missing scales; he grinned whilst he carried him down the stairs.

Marco woke up again, hours later and hours away from anything that resembled a circus, in a small tank covered in a blanket. The sound of peaceful music wafted through the air when he poked his head out from beneath the blanket. Sunlight shone from above. The bed of a truck rumbled faintly beneath him as the vehicle made it’s way down the highway. Marco could hear Jean’s raspy voice hum along to the music, and if Marco smiled, Jean didn’t notice before he ducked beneath the blanket again.

 

“Only saltwater, then?” Jean asked, and Marco nodded, watching him warily from his place inside his little fish tank.

Jean sighed, leaning against the car and staring out at the lake stretched before them. “Thought it’d be nice for you to get out and stretch your sea legs…”

Marco’s heart softened just a bit at the confession—that Jean intended to take Marco to the ocean no matter what, not just dump him in some lake and call it a day.

They stopped like this often, whenever Jean had to sleep or they both needed food. Marco slept as they drove, hidden safely beneath the blanket, dreaming of the ocean he was so close to yet again.

He could almost taste the pleasurable burn of salt in his lungs again at the mere thought of the ocean, so much clearer and authentic than the artificially salted water of his tank back at the circus, or even the one he resided in now, however close attention Jean had paid to natural salt levels. He could imagine the fish, colorful and bright and real—not chopped into pieces and dumped into the water frozen and bloody.

When they stopped to eat or made pit stops to admire the world about them, Marco began to speak more freely. Jean would ask him questions and wait patiently for the answer Marco crafted for him, each word chosen carefully.

“Do all mermaids sing?”

“Yes. It’s a mating thing.”

“You must’ve gotten all the honeys with a voice like that.”

“I was too young for mating when I was captured.”

Silence would fall occasionally, when Marco said things like that, but Jean always found some way to get past it. Sometimes, Marco found himself hoping for the conversation to last longer.

Sometimes they’d talk about human things, about their mating rituals, about legs and sunlight. Jean spoke little about how he came to work at the circus. “Money,” he murmured gruffly once, but something about the way he said it convinced Marco that money to Jean wasn’t about greed but rather survival.

The miles trundled on this way, all long dreams about the future to come and long conversations about each other’s world. Each pit stop became a new thing to learn about each other—the name of Jean’s mother, the strangest fish Marco had ever seen, the biggest asshole Jean had ever met, the biggest whale Marco had ever touched, the taste of sugar and the way Marco gagged when Jean offered him a taste of his milkshake. The way Jean laughed and laughed and looked, to Marco, like sunshine incarnate.

Marco lived pit stop to pit stop, and his fish tank didn’t feel so cramped when he was draped over the side, listening to Jean speak.

 

Marco had never heard Jean curse before, until that day he came back to the car screaming, throwing flyers into the bed of the truck, slamming hands on the car door. Marco was too afraid to say anything until he collapsed against the door, eyes red and puffy as he cried. “Jean? Jean what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“They’re looking for you,” was all he managed to say, forehead resting against the door, eyes focused straight ahead, staring at nothing. “Look at the flyers, Marco, they’re for you.”

Wet hands made the pages curl, but he could clearly see his stage name, printed across the top in bold, swirling letters, “Marvelous Marco the Mermaid” and another word he didn’t know, although the M was very clear to him.

He didn’t know what the numbers meant, what the signs meant, what any of it meant, only knowing how to speak and write his name in Jean’s language, but the way Jean stressed, he assumed greed had had its say in Marco’s life once again. “What does it say?” he asked softly, setting the paper down and ducking beneath the water again, gills working quickly as his breathing quickened.

“Says they’ll pay anyone who can bring you back.”

And Marco’s fears came crushing in again. “Are you going to take me back?”

Because for Jean, money was survival. For Jean, there were stressed huffs whenever they stopped for food. For Jean, there were hasty magic shows where his sleight of hand was desperate and sloppy, a hurried bid for gas money.

And Marco was valuable only for money and fame, and he curled into the corner of his tank, long tail bunched in his own arms, eyes wide and filled with terror at the thought of going back—humans were untrustworthy and selfish and vain and _greedy_ —

“Marco—Marco, hey, calm down, _Marco_.” Jean crawled into the bed beside Marco’s tank, put his hands in and winced when Marco flinched back.

“Shit, fuck, Marco, listen to me—I’m not taking you back,” he begged, wet hands grasping at the glass of the tank, urging Marco to look at him, to understand. “Marco, I’m not taking you back. I’m taking you to the ocean, you’re going home, you’re never going back there, never again.” His forehead against the glass, wet eyelashes closed against pale, sharp cheeks. “I won’t let them take you back there.”

And Marco found it in himself to believe him, to press his hand to the side of the tank where Jean’s hand was pressed on the other side.

 

They learned to travel by night. For a few days, Jean’s sleep schedule was screwy, and Marco had to fight to meet him in the middle, for pit stops where they could talk and learn.

They had scares—Marco woke up to the sound of a fight, popped out just in time to see Jean throw a punch before shoving Marco back underwater and starting the car, and they were off again, Jean cursing in the driver’s seat. Maybe a tank in the bed of a truck was too conspicuous, and maybe they should change the car they were in because surely everyone knew it by then. But there was no money, no time for change.

“Just a few states left,” Jean assured Marco when he felt the urge to cry. “We’ll be there soon.”

They learned one face well, a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes and a large nose and a right hook that gave Jean a black eye. Marco had nightmares, and when that happened, Jean leaned against the tank and reached in to hold Marco’s cold hand. “She won’t stop us. No one will. Gonna take you home.”

 

The sun shone bright overhead when Jean pulled Marco out of his tank, hopping off the edge of the bed of his truck and practically running towards the water. “Are you sure, is it really salty, what if it just tastes salty?” Marco chattered, nervous and excited, the tip of his tail flipping with every hurried question.

And Jean just grinned, skidding to a stop on the edge of a large rocky outcropping, flat and close enough to the water for him to sit on the edge and dip his legs in the water. “I’m positive, Marco, this is it!” He squeezed his arms around Marco a little tighter as he grinned at him. “You ready to test your sea legs again, Marco?”

If the way Marco flipped his tail, bouncing in Jean’s firm grip was anything to go from, then the answer was yes, but momentarily it seemed that Marco was too excited to remember how to speak. How long had it been since he’d been able to stretch his tail out—would he remember how real water tasted, would he know the feel of the lake floor beneath his fingertips?

“On three, Marco, brace yourself.” And for each count, Marco clung to Jean, desperately, heart pounding. “One.” And Marco took a deep breath of air. “Two.” And Marco closed his eyes tight, hid his face in the crook of Jean’s neck. “Three!” And Marco was tossed into the air.

A brief moment of floating, and then the water rushed up to embrace him—and _oh_ how it embraced him.

Like an old friend, the water enveloped him, spoke into his ears of the things he’d missed, and when he finally unfurled his tail, his fins spread in the water like hair in the wind.

Jean sat where he was, legs crossed as he watched it all begin. Marco had always been beautiful. The dark blue shimmer of his tail, the fluid movements of his body—even without a smile, he was mesmerizing when he performed, but _this_.

Oh, Jean could watch him forever.

He did the tricks he’d been taught, reclaimed them as his own with an ecstatic grin. He was off like a shot the moment he processed the water, skimming the surface with his hands and then flipping out of it, his laughter loud and beautiful in the air.

When Marco swam up to Jean, clawing his way onto the rock, clumsy like a child and grinning just as wide as one, he felt more like himself than he had in a very long time.

“Swim with me,” he begged, his voice breathless, hands dragging at Jean’s. “Come on, swim with me, it’ll be fun!”

Jean protested with a smile, laughed at Marco’s pouting, and when he realized that Marco would not give up, he stood and pulled off his clothes—t-shirt, jeans, socks and shoes, nothing but his boxers left. He gave Marco a push back into the water before leaping in after him.

Marco laughed, laughed at his awkward limbs and puffed out cheeks and almost see-through boxers, and his pale skin looked paler underwater, but oh. Oh, none of that mattered, because they were together, and Marco swam circles around Jean, pulled his hands and flipped his tail at him. He rose above the waves when Jean had to breathe, and he sang, sang whatever came to him.

When Jean was there to hear him sing, his songs were alight with love.

They’d been swimming for a long time, hours had passed by the time Marco had the decency to look the least bit tired.

“You want to get back to the car? We’re only a few days away from the ocean now,” Jean asked, swimming closer to the sleepy mermaid and diving down to follow him beneath the water.

He didn’t expect the warmth of Marco’s arms around his neck, the softness of his hair in the crook of his neck. He didn’t expect the smooth coolness of Marco’s tail around his waist, wrapping all the way down his leg. Marco’s fins were thin, frail and fragile and soft against his calf. Marco said nothing, and Jean said nothing. He let his hand press against the small of Marco’s back, let his other hand cradle the back of his head. But he didn’t say a thing.

They spent some time like that until Jean had to breathe, and then they separated with a nervous laugh. By the time they crawled out of the water, they were both cackling, and it was dark and cold outside.

“Marvelous Marco,” Jean scoffed, hefting Marco up in his arms. “More like Magnificent Marco!” Marco laughed, covered his face and his blush with both hands. “More like Magical Marco! Marco the Beautiful! Marco the Wonderful!”

“Marco the Amazing,” Marco chirped in, and Jean spun them both around in circles, barely managing to keep his balance.

“There you go! Marco the Amazing! Amazing Marco!”

For miles down the road after that pit stop, Marco thanked Jean profusely, every single chance he got, and Jean always smiled back. “Anything for you.”

 

It wasn’t sunny when they reached the beach, like Jean had promised, but promises meant nothing to Marco now. He struggled in Jean’s arms, tasting salt in his own tears. “Please, Jean, don’t do this, don’t throw me in—they’ll be angry, they’ll hurt you, Jean,” he pleaded, but Jean was resolute.

He was already bleeding from his nose, the redness dripping down onto Marco stomach, but Jean wouldn’t budge. He struggled through the sand, towards the rocks where he’d throw Marco into the ocean, finally, just like he’d promised. “I’m not letting them take you back there, Marco,” he choked, stumbled and fell into the sand, but he got back up and lifted Marco back up and kept going.

Marco looked over Jean’s shoulder, saw the one they’d never been able to shake, following with an intense gaze and the shine of something sharp in her hand. “Jean, please, I don’t want you to get hurt, just give me to her, please,” he sobbed.

But Jean had already made it to the rocks, was already climbing one, covered in sand and aching, bruises forming, cuts on his hands from the broken glass of Marco’s tank. She wasn’t far behind, and Marco remembered how he’d felt about humans not long ago—greedy, selfish, untrustworthy, _dangerous_.

“Swim away, Marco,” Jean ordered, “Forget about me and swim away, just fucking do it, okay?”

“But—“

“They’d hurt me even if I gave you over, Marco.”

They whipped around to the sound of her footsteps on the rock, and Jean took one last moment to look at Marco’s face—afraid he’d never see it again—and then threw him.

There was no floating, there was no pause of excitement or bracing himself for impact. Marco hit the water hard. He’d dreamt about this, about savoring the first taste of salt in his mouth, but he spat out that first mouthful of pure ocean water to scream out for Jean, who was backing steadily away from the woman with a knife in her hand.

Marco couldn’t hear what was said, waves knocking him over. Oh, he didn’t know how to swim in this—it had been too long, he didn’t know how to balance himself or keep his head above the waves. He struggled, splashed, screamed for Jean. What if he were hurt, what if he were killed—he made out blurry shapes above him, a struggle, all limbs and punches.

He managed to pop out of the water one last time, eyes searching, when a heavy form came flying over the edge of the rock, down towards him, and he’d be a fool to not recognize Jean.

Curses came to them from above, but all Marco saw was Jean, crashing into the water, something embedded in his stomach, blood spurting from the wound. He latched onto him, struggling to hold him above the water, but his head lolled onto Marco’s shoulder and he felt limp and lifeless in Marco’s arms.

It wasn’t worth it. Freedom wasn’t worth it, nothing was worth this.

He couldn’t go to the shore for fear of the woman chasing them, could barely keep Jean above water where they were. Desperate, he threw Jean onto a rock and held him there, praying that he could wait, wait until she left, wait until it was safe. What if he just gave himself back? In return for Jean’s safety? What if he just gave himself up?

But the way Jean spluttered, squinting at him with a faint smile, “Told you I’d take you home,” oh. Marco couldn’t. Or everything they’d ever been together, everything they’d seen and done and every mile would have been for nothing.

So Marco held him and waited.

 

Jean awoke on the beach, hazy and aching, his stomach screaming with pain. People stood around him, murmuring worriedly, and when they saw he was awake, one with a loud voice assured him, “You’re going to be just fine, sweetie, we’ve called an ambulance—oh God, I can’t believe he’s okay—“

But Jean could only say, “Marco.” He sputtered, water coughing out of his lungs. “Marco. Marco, Marco, is he okay, where’s Marco?”

“Who’s Marco, sweetie? Was he with you? Is he the one that did this to you?”

“No, no,” Jean panted, shaking his head back and forth, doing his best to move but always being gently pushed back, until he was full on struggling, someone pinning him down. “Marco! Is Marco okay!”

He heard someone ask again, “Who’s Marco? What does he look like?”

“Marco’s a mermaid.” It wasn’t Jean that had answered.

A young girl, round and shy, widened her eyes in surprise when everyone turned to her. She swallowed; she looked around. “Marco’s a mermaid.” And she pointed out into the waves, where the ocean for once was strangely calm.

Jean laughed softly at first, and then louder and louder until he was cackling through the pain, head thrown back into the sand. Everyone around him was sure he’d lost his mind. But Jean had lost nothing.

Jean had lost nothing.

 

Summer ended before Jean left the hospital, but that was just fine with him. He settled into the world there, until every tourist knew his name and not an idea of how any of his tricks worked. Sleight of hand, tricks of the eye, they always had been his specialty, and he utilized it—quick cash was better than none.

Days faded into weeks into months. All that was left of his wounds was a scar and a spark of hope. The moment summer rolled back around, Jean made his home at the beach. Every morning until he had to go to his day job, he made sand castles. Every evening when he came back, he played his tricks, passing his deck from hand to hand, cards between his fingers. He put bouquets of flowers on the edges of each rock, crafted them from thin air—or as far as anyone knew he did. The day he found rose petals scattered across the surface of the water, he was unbearably excited, dancing to a song he couldn’t yet hear.

Marco returned with barely a hum to his name before Jean was there, flowers hidden up his sleeve and a grin on his face.

By then Marco was too big— _healthy_ —for Jean to carry, but he set him on his lap anyway, talked all about the home he’d finally made for himself. And Marco spoke of the ocean as if it were a magical thing, and maybe it was, maybe it was. But they held hands all the while and spoke of the future mostly, of their dreams, of the places they’d go. Of the time they would meet in the middle again.

“I wish you could come with me,” Marco whispered, reminding himself of the warmth of Jean’s skin beneath his fingertips. “You would love it out there. It’s so beautiful, Jean.”

But Jean shook his head, rubbed his thumbs over a freckled cheek. “I don’t need to see all of that.” For the first time, he let his lips brush the cool, wet surface of Marco’s skin—his temple and then the apple of his cheek. “I can’t go to the bottom of the ocean or swim out to sea, but we can swim here.” He turned Marco’s face to his with a gentle hand. “And every summer, we’ll see each other, every day. That’s all I need. All I need is you.”

They dove into the water together, swam for what felt like hours—Jean in almost see-through boxers, Marco with a tail healed from the scars of yesteryear. Swimming circles around the boy with long toes, fins draping along his calf as he wrapped around him. They bobbed with the waves, watching each other with grinning eyes.

When Marco sang, his voice was alight with love, and when Jean laughed he looked like sunshine incarnate. And when they met for a hesitant first kiss, they were happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me writing things! Modern Fantasy things!  
> Anyway, to the point, I really wanted Mermaid Marco, and this was surprisingly hard to write at first but I'm kind of in love with how it turned out??? And I'm nervous to see what you think, I hope you liked it! One of my friends who read this described Jean as a Disney Prince in this, lol.  
> Kudos and Comments are always, always, always treasured. If you want to see more of my writing or ask me questions, my writing sideblog is novelistangel.tumblr.com. =D If you super duper like this, go ahead and reblog it to show more people, I'd love you forever.
> 
> (Also, I'm just gonna put this here, one of the songs I listened to whilst I was writing because oh my God, it's perfect for that ending: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WG9bJ5qmxWg.)


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